


The Fire Inside

by athena_crikey



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: A/B/O, AU, Everything is simple with Bush, Friendship, Hornblower overthinking things, Love, M/M, Porn With Plot, where is my shame?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22765423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Hornblower sips the last of his bitter drink with a tightness in his gut. It is all that stands between him and disaster, all that prevents his unfortunate nature from getting the best of him and wreaking havoc in this ship. And now he has run out of his supply.
Relationships: William Bush/Horatio Hornblower
Comments: 5
Kudos: 55





	The Fire Inside

_Hotspur_ bobs calmly in the shallow waters off Brest, the icy winter wind whistling in her sheets. 

The blockade has been going for months now, the Inshore Squadron dotting the French coast like so many buoys, each working at all hours to maintain their proper position. It felt odd at first to be spending so much attention to remaining motionless, but eventually it became natural, became monotonous. Rations came regularly towards the end of summer, but as the fall gales set in they’ve been cut off from their supplies. No water, no salted beef, no letters. 

No tea. 

Hornblower sips the last of his bitter drink with a tightness in his gut. It is all that stands between him and disaster, all that prevents his unfortunate nature from getting the best of him and wreaking havoc in this ship. And now he has run out of his supply. 

He could write to Pellew, of course. Could ask – could beg – for relief. The Admiral had been incredibly understanding when Hornblower had been a mid under him, had taken it into his own hands to see that a steady supply of the suppressing tea was acquired and that, when despite its regular use a heat _did_ break through Hornblower was sent ashore with a minder to sweat it out. That minder had been Archie, a thoughtful, kind-hearted beta who hadn’t been able to give Hornblower what he needed but who _had_ been able to keep him from making a fool of himself aboard ship. He knows other captains are far less accepting of omegas in heat; they batten them down in the orlap or simply allow a breeding frenzy which often tears the hapless omega to shreds. 

But he’s a captain now, in charge of his own vessel, and he can’t go begging the Admiral for help with situation he should never have allowed to occur. He should have predicted the poor weather, should have laid in a larger supply of tea, should never have taken a chance with his wretched nature. 

His hand trembles as he puts the teacup down on his desk; it shifts slowly from side to side as the sloop rocks with the waves. He almost thinks he can feel the first flush of the heat, can feel the sweat on his skin… No. That’s imagination, is his restless mind setting traps for itself. 

But if supplies don’t come soon… Hornblower digs his nails into his palm, willing the pain to calm him. He will think of something. He has to.

  
***

The tea blunts his sense of smell, his preternatural awareness of the other men around him. As its effects begin to wear off he finds himself assaulted by overpowering scents on all sides. A ship’s crew is a natural environment for alphas and he has many aboard – including his lieutenant. Bush smells of sawdust and spirits – good clean, strong scents. When they’re alone together on the quarter deck or in Hornblower’s cabin, the captain finds himself calming as Bush’s natural competence washes over him, communicated by his scent. But out mixed with the rest of the men it becomes threatening, dangerous. They all vie subconsciously for supremacy, and while Bush is without question the top alpha he reminds the others of it constantly. The resulting crush of aggression is almost unbearable to Hornblower’s suddenly-sensitive nose.

He also is keenly aware of every gaze, every hint of notice from the men. He’ll be drawing attention soon, will be unable to bury his nature the way he usually does. Every time he catches one of the crew looking at him he wonders if it’s starting, if his scent is changing. If they’ve realized what’s going to happen. It makes him sick.

  
***

Bush takes him aside the next day, three days after the tea has run out. His weather-beaten face is worried, his blue eyes solicitous. “You don’t look well, captain. You haven’t been eating.”

It’s true, he’s hardly touched the slop Styles has cooked for him. But that’s not the reason for his pallor, his trembling hands. “I appreciate your concern, Bush. But it’s nothing.”

“Sir… are you certain? Your scent,” he begins hesitantly. This is unheard-of for Bush, who never pushes boundaries with Hornblower. The rules of the Navy can at times eclipse even alpha dynamics, and Bush has never tried to use his nature to pressure Hornblower into anything since Hornblower was promoted. With his subordinates, Hornblower knows, he has no compunctions about using his nature to exact control. The fact that Bush is clearly restraining himself for Hornblower’s sake makes him all the more appreciative of his lieutenant. 

But right now, he’s not open to a discussion. “That’s my business,” he says shortly. 

“Yes, sir,” agrees Bush, still looking concerned. Here in his cabin Bush’s scent is strong, almost overpowering. There’s a hint of forcefulness to it, a suggestion that if he chose he could press for command of the situation and that Hornblower would cede it. But mostly, it speaks to trust and reliability. “All the same, sir, if something were to happen…”

“Such as?” asks Hornblower, harshly. He can’t bring himself to speak of his nature even to Bush. It’s pathetic, humiliating – all the things a captain is supposed never to be. 

“I just mean… I’m here for you, sir. Always.” Bush’s voice is quiet, calm. 

He had dreamed of Bush years ago under the hot Caribbean sun, their extended stay in Kingston coinciding with his last heat. Archie had been gone by then and Hornblower had turned to a whorehouse to see him through it, his heart full of grief even in the madness cast by the mating urge. Even then it had been Bush’s hands on his flesh that he had imagined, Bush’s strong scent that he had craved – the only alpha ever to pay him any attention for his mind and capabilities rather than his potential for bedding. 

Hornblower feels his scent glands pressing, feels his hips loosening. He’s not in heat yet but he’s already getting hungry for it, his body reacting instinctively to his dark thoughts, his memories of long sweaty nights. 

Bush stiffens, jaw working, as Hornblower’s scent hits him. His blue eyes are shadowed, his strong callused hands tense. “Sir,” he says, voice raw, yearning. 

“Go,” orders Hornblower. It’s a direct command, and while he can see Bush’s nature arguing with his training, they’ve neither of them lost their wits yet. 

Bush turns and leaves without another word.

  
***

There’s still hope – just a tiny shred of possibility that the weather will lift long enough for a rations ship to get through. Or that Pellew might call the captains to assemble aboard the _Tonnant_ and that at least he would be spared the horror of his own ship seeing him fall to pieces, seeing him sweat and beg and plead like a heat-struck bitch.

That hope runs out the next day late in the forenoon watch while Hornblower is standing on deck watching the men at gun drill, running the cannon in and out but not actually firing them – powder is a precious resource for so poor a captain. 

He had woken in a sweat, tangled in his bedclothes, but had taken it for the aftereffects of the nightmares that haunted him in the dark hours. Now though, as he stands beside the rail, he feels a surge of heat flare up. Feels his nerves begin to sing, the sensation like broken bottles scratched against glass windows. A painful, pitiful feeling. There’s a dampness in his trousers, slickness leaking from his arse. He catches his breath and staggers, even as beside him Prowse gives him a surprised look. 

On deck, two of the men stop what they’re doing, turning to stare at him, both alphas. Their mids try to draw their attention, but Hornblower has fully captured it. As the wind shifts behind him more heads turn, men too distracted to continue in their duty. 

It’s happening. His greatest fear, his truest nightmare – he is losing control, and he will wreck the order of the ship with him. Trapped with men blind with lust and mad with the urge to dominate, Hornblower will be torn to pieces, and the men will hang for their natures. If the ship doesn’t flounder first. 

“ _Back_ ,” snarls a dangerous voice beside him, and Hornblower is already so lost with the heat that he steps backwards instinctively, obeying the alpha who orders him. But Bush – for it is of course his lieutenant – is not speaking to him. He’s facing down the half-dozen alpha sailors, head high and eyes alight with rage. He is beautiful in his fury, all power and banked fire. “Back, you sons of sea-cocks! Take one step up and I’ll flail your backs raw myself.”

The icy wind feels like fire against Hornblower’s fevered skin. He’s panting, the need inside him an endless agony, the ache of sheer want overpowering. He craves touch – craves _violence_ , to be thrown down and bit and rutted into. Craves teeth against his neck and a fat prick up his arse. 

The smells of the ship – salt and tar and hemp – are utterly overwhelmed by the predatory scents of the alphas. But Bush’s overpowers them all, the reek of shaved wood and rum so strong Hornblower almost thinks he can feel it unravelling his fast-dying control. 

“Bush,” he pants, one hand raising to his collar to loosen it. Bush catches his wrist and pulls it away, and it’s only then that Hornblower remembers his scent glands, remembers that uncovered they will drive the alphas mad. 

“Into your cabin. Please. _Sir_.” Bush is clearly struggling to retain command of his senses even as Hornblower loses his. He half-turns, trips, and feels Bush catch him and bundle him through the doorway. He stumbles down the dark corridor and into his cabin, desperate and alone. Behind him he can hear more shouting but has no mind for it, no sense of what’s being communicated. 

In his cabin he starts stripping out of his clothes, his skin afire. His prick is already hard and pulsing with his racing heartbeat; the insides of his legs are wet with slick. He moans and falls into his bed, the friction of the sheets against his skin agony. 

There are sounds from the other side of the bulkhead, shouting and scuffling. Hornblower has just enough sense left to know that this is it, that in a moment they will burst through and be on him. 

He always knew his wretched nature would be the end of him.

But when the door opens it’s not half a dozen men who charge in but Bush and Bush alone, his pupils wide ringed by only a thin sliver of forget-me-not blue, his strong shoulders back and his head high: strength and dominance. His scent seems to pour into the room like seawater, thick and musky, almost a third presence between them. He steps out of his heavy pea coat, leaves it lying against the door soaked with his scent – either carelessness or a marking to the alphas outside, Hornblower neither knows nor cares. 

Hornblower contorts on his bunk, one hand already stroking his aching cock, the other pulling helplessly at the buttons of his shirt. The thin cotton is damp with sweat, sticks abominably to his fiery skin. “William,” he gasps, voice hoarse with need, with want, with unfettered madness. He is no longer a captain and Bush his lieutenant, he is naught but fire in search of quenching. 

Bush bends to him, strong, hoary hands on Hornblower’s shoulders, and his wet tongue laps against the sensitive neck gland. He licks it over and over, tasting Hornblower’s scent, while his hands divest Hornblower of his remaining clothes. The sensation of Bush’s tongue against his neck is like a cool cloth to his fevered brow, like being on deck under the pump on a hot day in the south seas. His hands, although warm, feel calming against his sweat-slicked sides as they slip beneath his shirt and push it off, thumbs brushing against his flanks. 

“William,” he says again, panting against the fire inside him.

“I’m here,” cuts out Bush, his own voice rough as oakum. Hornblower catches hold of his shoulders and pulls him closer, tumbles him into the low bunk and blindly thrusts his hips up, desperately seeking relief. An instant later Bush’s calloused fingers are sliding into him while Hornblower groans, his arse begging to be filled – more, harder, deeper. Bush is still in his clothes and Hornblower rips them off him, shoving off his jacket and tearing at the fastenings of his shirt and the buttons of his trousers. Bush uses his free hand to shove the dark wool down his thighs, his own swollen cock slipping free. 

There’s no time for niceties, nor any need of them. They’re here to rut, nothing more or less, and all Hornblower wants is Bush inside him, pounding the liver and lights out of him. William wrenches him over onto his back and an instant later is thrusting into him, his prick long and fat and dew-tipped. Hornblower gasps, fingers knotting in the bed clothes, hips slamming back against Bush, and then they’re moving. 

It doesn’t last long, the both of them far too distraught, too needy for it. Bush paints his insides with his seed after only a minute, Hornblower panting hungrily to completion. They collapse together into his bunk, pressed close in the small space. He doesn’t mind it; Bush’s scent envelops him in its message of strength and safety, tells him he won’t be left alone to the madness. 

The fire inside him banks slightly with the completed act, Hornblower finding some part of his thoughts returning to him. He lies with Bush behind him held in the lieutenant’s arms, both of them too hot to need covers. From Bush’s slowed breathing he guesses his second has also found a modicum of control, although he doesn’t loosen his grip. 

“The men?” asks Hornblower, voice gritty. 

“The bastards’ll stay out. I licked ‘em right and proper. It only needs one of us to take charge, and there was no chance of it being any other than me.”

Hornblower swallows. “I see.”

Bush shifts. “What about… will there be pups, sir?”

Hornblower feels sick at the thought. “No. The tea should prevent conception.”

“Of course, sir,” answers Bush quietly; Hornblower has no sense of whether he is glad or put out. It’s expected that a coupling during heat will result in pups, a sign of the alpha’s strength and virility. But Hornblower is a captain in His Majesty’s Navy; it’s unthinkable that he would have the time to lose birthing and raising offspring. 

“It’s no reflection on you,” he says, uncertain why he should suddenly feel so solicitous of Bush’s feelings. The man is here to rut, nothing more. 

“No, sir. I quite see it. It would look poor for a captain to be with pup by his lieutenant.”

“Tush!” replies Hornblower. “It’s simply a matter of timing and capacity.”

Bush doesn’t answer, and Hornblower feels a flush of heat overtake him. He closes his eyes. “It’s starting again.”

Bush presses his lips to the nape of Hornblower’s neck. Not ravenous, ravaging lips, but a softer, sweeter kiss. 

Hornblower wonders at it, but then his world is being engulfed in flames and Bush is turning him onto his back to stroke his burning cock.

  
***

The next coupling lasts much longer – Hornblower has no sense of time but he feels raw and chafed by the end of it, feels utterly exhausted. Bush, with his stronger form and greater stamina, is in better shape but by the time the need passes even he collapses into a kind of dreary half-consciousness.

Matthews, a reliable beta, is allowed in with water and victuals; he says nothing either coming or going, simply leaving a tray on Hornblower’s desk, such that his visit feels almost dreamlike. 

They don’t speak this time. Hornblower knows from experience that it’s best to snatch sleep while it’s available, and settles down with his eyes closed, Bush’s long arm thrown over his thin hips.

  
***

He awakens to Bush thrusting into him, both of them only half-awake but already mad with lust. He stretches against his bunk, shoving his hips back towards Bush’s, groaning and whimpering. Bush is licking at his neck again, at the tender scent glands that, if bitten, would allow him to claim Hornblower as his. So long as Hornblower returned the gesture. The feel of Bush’s tongue against his sensitive skin makes him even harder, makes him twist and grind his hips.

Senseless as he is to consequences, he wants this mark. His instincts tell him that he and Bush are highly compatible, that he has nothing to fear from this man, that Bush will fulfil his needs to every extent possible. The more Bush presses his nose and tongue against Hornblower’s neck the hungrier he grows for it, for the fortitude and the completion of a permanent mate. And yet there’s a part of him that holds back, a tiny voice that is all that remains of his sanity, shouting somewhere in the distance not to be a fool.

  
***

When the wave passes, Hornblower drinks down dirty water and chews on ship’s tack while reflecting more thoughtfully on the matter.

Bush is an exemplary mate – strong, hungry but patient, and also more careful than Hornblower could have expected. His bites, when he does bite, don’t break the skin, his gift of himself generous rather than torturous. Although forceful he has managed to hold the awkward line of inferior to superior, conscious of the fact that Hornblower may later resent high-handed behaviour. 

And yet, Bush _is_ inferior to him; to allow himself to be tied to a lieutenant might be a grave mistake. And it is the way of the service for officers to be constantly parting – in a year, perhaps less time even, either of them could be reassigned without the other. There are concessions made for mated pairs, but the Navy comes first, always. It would be torture to have to accept another while mated to Bush. Better not to do something foolish and rash while heat-mad. 

“Sir?” says Bush, carefully, seated on the bunk beside him, both of them half-covered by the sheet. “Are you well?”

Hornblower looks up. “Quite well. You’ve been kind to me, William. Far kinder than I could have hoped.”

Bush blushes, his sharp cheekbones pinkening. “I would hope that I could never hurt you, sir.”

“No indeed. It would seem not.” He sighs.

“Is there another, sir? Is that why you wouldn’t come to me?” Bush’s voice is quiet, cautious. 

“No. No other. I … simply hoped it would not come to this. That I would not cause such a disruption to the ship.”

“Surely it’s not so bad. The crew understand. The Admiral will, too.”

“If you understood – if you _knew_ – what it is to lose yourself so completely. To be utterly vulnerable, to burn with such a hunger that you would accept the blackest of scoundrels into your bed welcomingly… I hate it, William. I hate being a slave to this godforsaken nature.” He has never been so frank with anyone. But he has never shared himself so completely with anyone as he has with Bush over the past day. 

“I’m sorry sir. I’ve never thought of it that way. To me it just seems the way of things. I believe the crew feel the same. We would none of us look down on you for your nature. I would thrash any man who did, and I believe they would too,” he says, simply. 

Hornblower passes a shaky hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “I wish I were as straightforward as you. I fear I’m all twisted up like a corkscrew.”

“It’s that twistiness that makes your mind so sharp, sir. I’m sorry it causes you pain, but it also makes you the man we – I – love.”

Hornblower swallows. “Is that why you are so good to me?” he asks, softly.

Bush looks at him with surprise in his blue eyes. “Did you not know? I would do anything, give anything if it could bring you joy, sir. My life, my body, my brains such as they are – they’re all yours to do with as you care to.”

Hornblower turns to him, his hand rising to caress the side of Bush’s face. He leans in and presses a kiss to his lieutenant’s mouth. Bush answers, lips parting to receive Hornblower, his strong hand grasping Hornblower’s wrist. 

“Is it starting?” he asks uncertainly, when they break apart.

Hornblower shakes his head. “I felt I should thank you, William. For your friendship. For… everything.”

The idea that he might want something more, that they could be something more to each other, he locks away in his heart. Such things are not to be contemplated. Not for two men in the service at a time of war.

  
***

The heat passes the next day, Bush crawling away sometime while Hornblower sleeps. He wakes up in an empty bed feeling cold for the first time in two days, curled up in the empty space where Bush had once lain. Matthews comes in with his breakfast – clearly they are still not trusting Styles, an alpha, with the task – and after Hornblower eats his salted beef and floury pudding he dresses and comes out on deck.

Everything is ship shape and Bristol fashion, and he wonders how many hours it took Bush to achieve it. No one bats an eye at his appearance, the two men at the wheel staring forward and the mids down on the deck below taking their turns casually. Prowse, coming up from the gundeck, stiffens towards a salute, and Hornblower nods at him. “At ease, Mr Prowse.”

He wants, he realises, to ask after Bush. The lieutenant isn’t on deck, is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he’s sleeping, or having a meal in the tiny room that serves as the ward room. But regardless of where he is, it would be the height of imprudence to ask after him now, so soon after their parting. It would show favour, would show _weakness_. 

So he takes a few turns on the quarterdeck, stretching his legs for the first time in two days. The cold winter air is refreshing after the stifling heat of his cabin, after spending so much time damp with sweat. 

He senses Bush’s arrival by some mechanism that is unclear to him – perhaps he heard his step, or smelled his scent, but it feels to Hornblower that he simply _knew_ Bush was approaching. “Good day, sir,” his lieutenant says, as though the last time they saw each other they hadn’t been naked and intertwined. 

“Good day, Mr Bush.” He looks around, conscious of the crewmen nearby, all straining to hear their conversation. “The ship is in good order. My commendation.”

Bush looks almost grave. But so he should – the state of the ship is of the utmost importance. Far more so than what passed between them. “Thank ‘ee, sir.” 

He tries to think of something to say, some way of appreciating Bush that won’t go awry either with his lieutenant or the crew. That will convey his feelings without allowing misinterpretation. But in the end, all he can say is, “Thank _you_.”

The pleasure on Bush’s face tells him it was the right thing to say. 

END


End file.
